


Title: Art - Long Way From Home. Story - Weather The Storm. NC-17. John/Ronon. SGARB. Chapter One.

by millygal



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: First Time, M/M, Torture, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 07:32:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1679963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheppard is such a long way from home, can he weather the storm; make his way back to those who matter most, or will he lose it all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  


** **Title of Art:** [ Long Way From Home ](http://siennavie.livejournal.com/30466.html) **  
**Artist:** [](http://siennavie.livejournal.com/profile) [ **siennavie** ](http://siennavie.livejournal.com/)  
**Pairing(s):** Gen. John Sheppard.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Warnings:** No mandatory warnings apply.  
**Title of Fic:** Weather The Storm.  
 **Author:** [](http://milly-gal.livejournal.com/profile) [ **milly_gal** ](http://milly-gal.livejournal.com/)  
**Pairing(s):** Ronon/John  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Word Count:** 13,289.  
 **Warnings:** Character on character violence, slight non-con overtones. Torture.  
 **Summary:** Sheppard is such a long way from home, can he weather the storm; make his way back to those who matter most, or will he lose it all?  
 **A/N:** Sienna said, "I'm up for anything your Muse wants to play with," so I took that as a sign from the fic Gods to just let go :) Hope you enjoy. This was my first 'Bang' and I had such a blast, I will so be doing this again next year. Please go and give my amazing artist some love because she is so freaking talented, it hurts :) her art made me want to write this, and kept me going when I thought I was going to flag! Massive thanks goes out to my betas;  [](http://stir-of-echoes.livejournal.com/profile) [ **stir_of_echoes** ](http://stir-of-echoes.livejournal.com/) and  [](http://wings128.livejournal.com/profile) [ **wings128** ](http://wings128.livejournal.com/) , who's tireless cheerleading have kept me going on those days when the light at the end of the tunnel seemed really dull ! Also, thank you so much  [](http://siennavie.livejournal.com/profile) [ **siennavie** ](http://siennavie.livejournal.com/) for the extra banners *tackleglompsyousohard* they are gorgeous! And you're so right, Ronon should be in there somewhere !  
  
 **Chapter One**

  


_Sheppard, get up!_

John's mind is a swirling mass of fractured, bloodied; half remembered images all clambering for space as he opens his eyes to the stinging glare of the sun beating down on his broken and aching body.

_Get the fuck UP!_

The stench of sweat, of his own acrid body odour, mingled with the metallic tang of blood still seeping into the dusty ground through his thin tee makes John's stomach turn over, and he screws his eyes shut against the rapid-fire memories all vying for most horrifically vivid in his mind's eye.

_Sheppard, get up or I swear to...Don't make me kick you in your stubborn ass!_

Fingers scratching at the ground, grit gathering beneath his nails, John twists his neck and buries his face beneath his arm, to try and avoid the accusation in that all too familiar, if impossible, voice, "Fuck off, Ronon!"

Okay, so he's insane. Simple really; he's gone bat shit crazy and is dying whilst talking to the spectre of his, by now probably very dead, teammate.

The thought of Ronon laying still and grey somewhere forces shudders all along John's spine.

Dreading what he'll see, knowing that if there's a body to go along with that voice, then he's definitely lost it, John cracks one eye and tilts his face towards the sound of teeth grinding and deep sighs of disappointment, "You aren't here. You can't be...I let you..."

The effort of using his vocal cords causes John to gag and cough violently, streaming spittle onto the ground, coating his already purpling cheek.

_Bullshit! You didn't **let me** go anywhere. I'm the one who came out here with you, . , I'm the one who let his guard down. Now get the hell up!_

He can feel his heart beating out a staccato rhythm in his chest, and with every pump and stutter, there's a deep gnawing pain beneath his ribs, causing him to want to melt into the ground and disappear, "Ronon? With all due respect, buddy, I watched them haul your ass out of here...You aren't _real_."

For someone who isn't really there, Ronon's got a good grasp on pissing his Commanding Officer off.

John's eyes are closed. His body is twitching with the effort not to weep in agony; because no Sheppard has ever _wept_ for anything less than a lost cup match, and he can 'hear' Ronon tapping his non-existent foot, waiting for his team mate to get up off his ass and stop acting like a panty waste.

_Sheppard...John, please. Get up._

Despite the insistence in Faux-Ronon's voice, John can feel the fight flowing out of him, or is that just blood? Either way, he's not sure he can even muster the energy to flip his usually stoic friend off, "Leave me alone Dex. Too tired. Just wanna..."

_No! This isn't you, come on, get moving. You can't give up. What, you just gonna leave me hanging?_

He may be hallucinating. Ronon may not be real, but the boot John feels connect with his legs has the desired effect, and he shoots off the ground and onto his knees, lungs contracting against the pain rushing along his nerve endings, making his head swim and his vision blur, "I'm up, I'm UP!"

The image of Ronon fades slowly into the distance as John's eyes become accustomed to the glare and heat haze surrounding him, and he watches as that smug know-it-all grin disappears to leave nothing, but the burning need to find a way off this dead hunk of rock and back to his friend.

John's body curls inwards as he tries desperately to drag himself off his knees. The scrape of jagged gravel digs harshly into his flesh through layers of cloth as he stumbles forward, palms slipping through blood curdled scrub and dust.

Fingers shaped like claws, John digs his nails in and heaves himself upwards, pushing against the burn of stretched and strained muscle twitching beneath the bruises already beginning to mottle his pale skin.

He's halfway to his feet when something tugs sharply against his ribs, and he feels fresh wetness seeping across his skin, "Shit!"

Hovering on one knee, hands embedded with tiny flecks of gravel, he scrabbles to yank the hem of his tee out of the way.

The sight that greets him is visceral enough to force a few laboured breaths as he clamps down on the urge to gag. The smell of freshly cleaved flesh assaults his senses as he fights the need to poke at the open wound; like a child with a skinned knee whose fingers itch to pick at the scab.

Even John; a man who's seen his fair share of battlefield wounds, can't help the string of bile dribbling from his slackened lips, snaking its way down his chin and dripping onto his already saturated trousers.

Hunching forward, hands slamming into the ground creating a cloud of dust that makes his eyes water and sting, John's stomach roils, and he heaves, bringing up what little it held in the first place.

Violent shudders wrack his body as he continues to wretch long after there's nothing left to come up, and he has to grip the spinning ground to stop from falling face-first into a pile of his own stinking vomit.

Forcing himself upright, sitting on his haunches, wincing as the opening in his flesh pulls and rips, he wipes his mouth with a disgusted flick of his wrist before shoving upwards, determined not to let the ghost of Ronon's face still hovering in his imagination, down.

Ronon, shit, Ronon.

The last time he'd seen his friend, the real version not the conjured up dream that must have been John's mind's way of fighting against the darkness pushing in at the edges of his consciousness, he'd been chained and prostrate, at the mercy of a ridiculous amount of Wraith, all jostling for a chance to kick him, whilst he was down.

John grits his teeth and drags himself fully to his feet, ignoring the pulling ache and blood slowly seeping through his fingers as he clutches his ribs tightly and limps towards the gate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

_"You sure we don't need the rest of the team for this?"_

_John rolls his eyes at Ronon and shakes his head as he nods towards the control platform, "No, we're fine. It's just a supply run, and unless you want to wait for Rodney to finish arguing with Zelenka, which, by the way is in its fifth hour, then I suggest we haul ass now. Teyla's on the mainland, and I'm so bored I'm considering braiding your dreads."_

_Ronon gives John his best, 'Try it!' glare before smirking and turning towards the gate, "Fine, but if this ends up being a trap, you owe me."_

_"What did you have to go and say that for, now I'm gonna end up looking over my shoulder the entire time we're there."_

_Sheppard's voice fades as he, and Ronon step through the gate and the personnel up on the platform all laugh at the final image of John smacking Ronon upside the head._

_~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_Stepping out into the glare of the midday sun, Ronon shields his eyes and waits for John to materialise beside him before heading in the direction of the coordinates given to them by the traders, "Couldn't bring a Jumper for this, no, we had to...what was it you said? Enjoy the exercise. I get enough exercise kicking your ass in the gym!"_

_John chuckles at Ronon's blatant baiting and follows after his teammate, "Stop your whining, or I'm gonna have to start calling you Mckay."_

_Ronon's disgusted snort does nothing to quell John's laughter as they both stroll away from the now inactive gate._

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_The Wraith Worshippers, masquerading as traders, have all but fled, not totally satisfied that their masters won't start feeding after they've finished with the two Lantian scum, leaving their Gods with the tools to rip their enemies apart._

_"Sheppard! DOWN!"_

_John's not sure, which is worse; being surrounded by thirty hulking Wraith all armed to the teeth and ready to rip them to shreds at a moment's notice, or the fact that Ronon was right, and he's never going to hear the end of it, "Shit, watch out, there's one just...oomph!"_

_Ronon feels his heart hit his boots as a length of rusty chain wraps itself around his legs, snatching them out from underneath him, at the same time as he sees Sheppard slammed faced first into the ground, three Wraith all kicking and punching him with giddy abandon, "SHEPPARD!"_

_Clawing like a wild animal at his four stinking captors, yanking viciously on the chains now coiled tightly around his straining arms and legs, Ronon watches, helpless, as John is beaten bloody, forced to the ground again and again by the blows raining down upon him. If only John would 'play dead', but it's not in his nature, he doesn't understand the concept, "Sheppard, stop, you've gotta stop!"_

_John's body is being tenderised by heavy booted feet all managing to find a spare piece of flesh to land fresh kicks, and he's pretty fucking sure they've just shattered one of his eye sockets, but he can't stop fighting, won't stop struggling against the inevitable._

_They've managed to truss Ronon like a hog and are dragging him backwards, face pressed roughly into the ground, skin being flayed from his cheeks as they yank and pull._

_All John can see is Ronon, all he can feel is the terror at the thought of him being taken by these aliens who have already tainted everything else in the warrior's life._

_He's about to try to launch himself at the Wraith surrounding Ronon and dragging him in the opposite direction when he feels something viciously sharp slice into his body like a knife through warm butter, "Fuck!"_

_The tip of a Wraith staff is embedded in his flesh, just below his ribs, and John grips the handle, not sure whether to yank it free or try to wrestle it from his attacker who's salivating at the chance to run him completely through._

_Ronon hears the sheer agony in John's voice, and he struggles as hard as he can against the chains now biting deeply into his skin, but there's nothing he can do as blood blooms, dark and spreading, across John's shirt._

_Bellowing at the top of his lungs, spitting and clawing against the aliens pulling him to his feet, dragging him away from his injured friend, Ronon watches horrified as the Wraith hovering above John twists the staff violently before yanking it free from John's forgiving flesh with a wet sucking sound, "Sheppard, NO!"_

_The last thing Ronon sees as he's forced fully upright is John, falling face forwards into the dirt and grime at his feet._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Jesus Christ, Sheppard, what the hell..."

John's never been so thankful to hear Mckay's nasal, panicked voice, "Not...shit, not now, just get me back to base."

Rodney directs the four Marines with him to lift John carefully onto a stretcher and carry him back through the gate whilst covering their progress with the semi automatic in his hands, "Sheppard, where's...Where's Ronon?"

John grits his teeth and screws his eyes shut, trying to ignore the slowly widening hole in his side as he's hoisted onto a stretcher, "Gone, Wraith took him. Need to go get him, so get me back to base, NOW!"

Rodney motions for the Marines to hurry it up and follows through after, almost at a run.

John's never been the politest man on the planet, but he's always managed to keep the attitude in check in front of the subordinates. His tone is blatantly more to do with the missing man mountain than his injuries, and Rodney wouldn't want to be the one standing between Ronon and John when the Colonel goes to fetch his burly friend.

As they all slip through the gate back into Atlantis, Teyla is waiting, hovering like a rattle snake about to strike, all barely restrained strength and anger. Rodney watches her practically fall on John's stretcher as he radios down to the infirmary.

"John, what happened, are you okay? Where is Ronon, is he?"

John can feel the worry rolling off of Teyla in waves; a dense fog cloying his already dulled senses, and usually he'd try to find it within himself to be a little gentler with her, but fear for Ronon and the agony of his split and seeping flesh are all jostling for space in his over worked brain, "Wraith. Ambush. I'm _fine!_ Just need patching up, now!"

Teyla's hand halts in mid air, hanging there for a moment before she lowers it to her side.

She is desperate to touch, to feel, to check he is solid and really there, but the sharp tone in his voice and the way he keeps avoiding eye contact all tell her that it would not be welcomed. She tries not to notice the closed fisted punch of emotion that elicits and turns to Mckay, "Rodney, get him down to the infirmary, quickly now."

Rodney sees the cage bars clamp down as she takes a deep breath to steady herself before following after John's stretcher, and a sudden bolt of lightning strikes him; a clear understanding as to why she's been acting like a captured animal for the last two hours.

The flash of inspiration hits him square between the eyes, and he stumbles back a little under the weight of the knowledge. He can almost see the tendrils of real emotion snaking from Teyla to John, sleek lines of light weaving themselves around her usually cloistered heart.

He feels a certain sorrow for her, because there is one thing she will never be able to work her way passed; Ronon.

Well won't this be interesting!

Immovable mass comes up against unstoppable force.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John's head feels like he's had a night on the tequila, and he's gone ten rounds with Ali, but it's nothing compared to the searing agony of the now freshly washed and stitched hole in his side. He keeps trying to lift the bandages to get a glimpse at how bad it is, only for Carson to slap his hand away and give him his best _'Don't make me come over there'_ look.

He can barely breath and every time he tries to inhale deeply his entire body convulses like he's been electrocuted. There's a wet bubbling sound inside his chest, and he's not entirely sure Carson's managed to seal him up properly because his lungs feel _damp_. But no matter how bad he feels, no matter the fact that he actually thinks he might already be dead and he just hasn't managed to lie down yet, all he can focus on is Ronon, getting Ronon back, alive!

What if...No, he won't even think it. Can't! If he allows the fear nagging at the base of his brain to blossom fully, then he might just lose his shit completely.

Ronon has to be okay because otherwise that means he's gone and John never managed to tell him, to show him...

"Doc, when can I get out of here?"

Carson takes a step closer to the bed and tilts his head, giving John his most sympathetic and soothing look, even knowing he's about to get hit with a barrage of abuse, no matter how quietly he answers _that_ question, "Sheppard; you've been almost gutted. You're lucky ta be alive. You won't be gettin' outta here for a wee while yet."

The steely resolve on John's face scares the living shit out of Carson, because generally, that look mean's Sheppard's already formulating a plan that will drop them all in hot water, and it's a runaway train you'll just get crushed by if you even think about standing in his way, "Come on now, I want ta find Ronon as much as you do, but you can't...Let Lorne go, he's got all his insides on the inside and he's not likely ta die from blood poisoning if he pops his stitches."

"No."

"John..."

John struggles against the wires still embedded in his skin, "No!"

Hauling himself upright, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed, he starts tugging and pulling against the bleeping machinery pinning him in place, "I got him into this Doc, I have to...I've got to..." Breath coming in short ragged gasps, John slides off the bed and clutches his side, wincing and gritting his teeth, before levelling his determined gaze on Carson, "Please, I _have_ to."

Shaking his head and sighing, Carson helps shoulder John's weight as he scrabbles for his discarded clothing, "Fine, but if you die, don't come cryin' ta me."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elizabeth's eyes widen in comical disbelief as she listens to John's request to lead a suicide mission into enemy territory with nothing but an 'old friend' for back up, "Absolutely not!"

John lets out a shaky breath and gestures for Teyla and Rodney to leave the room, "Guys, a minute, please."

Teyla wants to speak up, to side with Doctor Weir. Lorne would be a much better candidate for the mission, having not been recently skewered by a Wraith Stunner, but she is not sure if she wants to stand against John because he is injured, or because he is so adamant about going to rescue Ronon.

She feels like a traitor to her team, to her friend, and he is her friend, but he is also apparently a lot more to John than she would like him to be, "John perhaps you should..."

John's eyebrows hit his hairline, and he dares Teyla to speak up, to contradict him, "Teyla, don't take this the wrong way, but right now I'm not interested in what you think I should maybe do. Ronon is all that matters here, so with all due respect, get out!"

The flash of hurt in her eyes isn't lost on John, no matter how quickly she manages to cover it over with her usual nonchalantly calm expression, but he can't let himself feel it. Not when the thought of Ronon being re-hooked on enzyme is at the forefront of his mind. They barely got him back the last time. He can't go through that again, and he can't risk anything worse happening to his friend, not now, not when he's so close...

The wind being knocked out of Teyla's sails isn't lost on Mckay either, who deftly slides his hands around her sagging shoulders and manoeuvres her out of Elizabeth's office before calling back, "We'll be in the lab. Call us when you've come to a decision"

Rodney's watched Weir and Sheppard for years now, dancing around the fact that both know John can pretty much get away with murder when it comes to doing what he wants and disobeying orders, because Elizabeth trusts him, even if she doesn't say it out loud very often.

The genius in residence gives John ten minutes before he's gotten his own way and is mounting an attack strategy.

As long as he allows Lorne to do the majority of the 'heavy lifting' Rodney's all in, as always, because despite the fact he _never_ says it, he trusts John as well.

The 'old friend' however, is another matter.

The last thing they need is Todd running rampant on the base and Sheppard bleeding out in the corner.

One of these days they're going to have to lock Ronon and John in a room and get them to wrestle it out, because if he doesn't get a handle on his as yet un-labelled feelings for the Satedan, he's going to keep barrelling head-first into mortal bloody danger in order to 'save the day'.

John waits for them to close the door and turns pleading eyes on Elizabeth, "Look; I know I'm not the most subtle man here. I also know that I'm a giant pain in your ass when it comes to procedure and following the rules, but it's Ronon. Tell me he wouldn't be in here doing _exactly_ the same thing if it was the other way round."

Elizabeth knows he knows the answer to that question, but she also knows nothing short of deadlocking him into his quarters is going to stop Colonel John Sheppard from hauling their sometime ally onto the base and forcing him to take them to Ronon, "John; I trust you with decisions here. I always have. That being said, don't you think your feelings for Ronon may be clouding your judgement a little? If you go in and are hurt, killed even...you're the ranking officer on this base, what exactly do you think that will do to the structure and safety here!"

"I know I walk into harm's way ninety-nine percent of the time, but this isn't about me. It's about Ronon. It was my operation that got him snatched and for all we know...Elizabeth, I'm not gonna stand by and let Lorne go in and get maybe himself and Ronon killed, if he isn't," John's face screws up, and he has to swallow thickly to stop the bile rising in his throat, "dead already. This was my fuck up; he's on my team. It's my responsibility to get him back."

Nodding once, Elizabeth taps her earpiece and signals Mckay, "Rodney, could you possibly try to locate our good friend Todd the Wraith."

"I knew it!"

"I heard that!"

Static fills her ear as Mckay disconnects the comm, and she shakes her head, "Does anyone here have _any_ idea what respect looks like!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ronon comes to slowly, like someone is teasing his mind into full consciousness, and it takes him a moment to remember where the hell he is. It's only the oily stink of Wraith that brings him fully awake, "Where's Sheppard, what have you done?"

The ringing slap that connects with his cheek shocks him into silence long enough to take in who exactly he's threatening.

The Queen of this particular hive is stood in front of Ronon; vivid red slash of a mouth twisted into a grotesque version of a smug grin, "Slave, you're awake. We wondered if perhaps you were going to sleep through your conversion."

"Don't."

She tilts her head and raises an eyebrow ridge, "Don't what, slave? Don't turn you into our very own pet. Why not? You took to it so well last time."

Ronon struggles against the slimy binding encasing him in the wall but finds he's barely able to move and he spits at the Queen's feet, "I swear; I'd rather die than go back to that."

She gestures behind her to some non-descript Wraith stood waiting like a good puppy then turns back to Ronon, cold grey fingers sliding into his hair, tugging his face level with hers, "Careful what you wish for slave. That is not an option for you, we have much grander plans. A little incentive perhaps."

She clicks her fingers and a static filled image of John laying broken and bleeding on the floor fills Ronon's vision, "What the...Where is he!"

She chuckles and steps away, "Dead by now I hope, body bloated and rotting in the desert. But my good lieutenants managed to capture the best bits of the encounter for your viewing pleasure."

Quick as lightning, she slams her feeding hand onto his chest as the images begin to rewind. Ronon sees John being taken to pieces as he feels the Queens enzymes working their way into his system, and he screams, long and loud, as the ice worming its way inside his veins solidifies.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You expect me to honour a bargain that you yourself have gone back on many times? Why, why would I do this when I know you would kill me as quick as look at me, or at least you would try!"

Lorne and his men are flanking John, guns poised and cocked, as he stands before Todd, alone on the gate ramp.

Attempting to hold himself so that their 'visitor' doesn't see he's injured, John steps up close to the Wraith he loves to hate and presses in close, close enough to feel Todd's rancid breath tickling his cheek, "Because, if I remember rightly, you tried to fuck us the last time we had a little meet and greet. We're still hurting, got our feelings dented. Thought you might like to make up for it by helping us to take back what's ours."

Todd sniffs once and smirks at Sheppard, "You are injured. You bleed. So, you need my help to run a suicide mission, and you are going to go in with substandard health, idiot!"

John grits his teeth and grabs a hold of Todd's jacket, yanking him almost completely off his feet, "Don't push me grey boy. I'm this close to shoving a taser up your ass on the sheer principle. Help us, I might reconsider, don't and you'll spend the next six weeks smelling every human being on the ship and not being able to take a taste!"

Todd physically uncurls Sheppard's fingers one by one from his jacket, in a show of strength not missed by anyone in the gate room, and steps back, appraising the situation. On the one hand, he could happily walk away, or kill as many of the humans as possible before attempting to run back through the gate, on the other, it might be fun to go up against the Queen of this particular hive. She was, after all, one of the ones responsible for his low standing among his people.

"I know where Ronon Dex is," As he expected, the entire room falls into chaos.

Mckay has to restrain John from shoving his gun under Todd's chin, and Teyla is being held at bay by Lorne's team who are only doing so because they know that Elizabeth is watching the whole exchange from the platform, and they'd get their asses tanned if they just let her try and rip strips off the Wraith now smugly watching the unfolding mayhem around him.

"When you have quite finished. Humans, what is it with you and your need to make a show of yourselves? I only know where he is because it is my business to know. You think I have survived this long by 'not' paying attention to these things."

John takes a deep breath and steps off the ramp, gesturing for Todd to follow.

The tenuous hush in the room is broken by the soft sound of Elizabeth tapping the rails around the edge of the control platform.

Everyone stops and looks up to see her pointing at Todd, "If you screw us on this, I will give Colonel Sheppard carte blanche to take you apart piece by soul sucking piece. Understand!"

Todd allows a small smile of appreciation to grace his usually expressionless lips for Weir's show of defiance in the face of losing one of her own before nodding once and following Sheppard out of the gate room. He would never admit this to her, to any of them, but they are a good team, a unit, and she is a leader like none he has seen.

Perhaps that has to do with her ability to empathise, despite her trying to hide this skill at every opportunity.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ronon's insides are burning, flaming with the need to give in and obey the Queen, who's fed him his own life force so many times now that he no longer knows where she ends, and he begins.

Clinging to the hope that John's still alive, has made it home, is the only thing stopping him from giving in completely, "What do you want with me!"

The Queen removes her hand from his chest, a slick, wet sucking sound accompanying the motion, and stares at the pin prick holes seeping enzyme and blood down the warrior's well defined torso, "I want you to give me everything. Your obedience, your love, your life."

Ronon musters up as much energy as he can drag from his slowly decaying body and spits in the Queen's face, "Never!"

With a regal-ness Ronon didn't know the Wraith were capable of; the Queen wipes her face with the back of her hand and tilts her head, "Fine; in that case, I want you to give me Atlantis. I would have allowed you to stand by and watch as I destroyed your home and friends, but if you persist in resisting me, I will break you, and then I will make you break them. Every last one. Starting with Colonel John Sheppard."

For the breifest of moments, Ronon allows the thought of John still being alive to envelope him in welcoming warmth, until the Queen's intentions filter through the bright red haze of anger and agony.

The curling of the Queen's lips around his best friend's name makes Ronon struggle so violently that he manages to snatch an arm free of the living membrane encasing his body.

Fingers twisted into talons, Ronon snatches at the Queen's throat and squeezes, feeling the satisfying strain of her muscles beneath his hand, "Over my dead body, witch!"

Snaking a finger beneath one of Ronon's, she snaps it backwards, severing tendons and shattering bone. Across the Satedan's howl of pain, she smiles thinly, "No, over his!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Todd's busy tapping away at the hand held tablet Rodney has reluctantly relinquished and there's an air of expectation as he screws up his eyes in concentration.

Every time he sighs, John almost jumps out of his skin, and he's inches away from shoving the muzzle of his gun to the Wraith's temple, but Elizabeth's warning glares are keeping his trigger finger in check, "Come on Todd, haven't got all day here!"

Todd lets the Colonel's tone of voice slide, mainly because he is surrounded by Marines all itching to put a bullet in his brain, and tisks before turning to Sheppard, "I am going as fast as I can, the coordinates do not translate to your software, and I have to decode them into a language your Lantian technology can understand. If you persist in harassing me, I will simply stop working."

Ignoring the hissed warnings of Teyla and Elizabeth, John steps into Todd's space and is about to cold cock him with the butt of his glock when Rodney beats him to it.

Barely retaining his balance as Mckay dashes passed him and smashes his fist into Todd's smirking face, John whistles and watches as the Wraith's eyes practically rattle in his skull, "Mckay!"

"What!" Rodney never breaks eye contact with Todd  as he addresses John and shoves a finger in the Wraith's face, "Listen to me you piece of pond scum. The only reason you're still doing anything that passes for breathing is because we _need_ your help. The minute you cease to be of any use, I swear to God and Einstein, I will get these fine Marines here to hang you off the edge of the control tower and drop your ass. Regenerate from that, you single celled amoeba! Get working, Now!"

~~~~~~~~~~~

The smug smirk Todd keeps flashing at Rodney isn’t lost on the scientist, in fact, he can feel the speculative looks creeping along his spine, making his skin crawl and his nerve endings vibrate, “What?”

Todd swings his grotesque face towards the resident genius and raises what Rodney assumes is meant to be an eyebrow, “I was simply wondering if you were going to attempt more violence, because I have to admit Doctor Mckay, I did not think you had it in you.”

Rodney knows his work partner is just trying to push as many buttons as possible.

He also knows that Lorne and Sheppard have stationed themselves at equidistant points around the room, guns casually thrown across their shoulders.

To the untrained eye, the Marine and the Flyboy are simply bored and awaiting the answers they need to lay out their mission. Rodney understands the men on his team better than that though, and they are in the perfect position to either cold cock Todd if he so much as sneezes in the wrong way, or step between the scientist and his unconventional research assistant if the need arises.

“There’s no need, I’ll just have Major Lorne here shoot you in the foot every time you annoy me.”

Todd snorts and turns to Lorne, as if expecting a denial, instead he’s met with the cold, hard eyes of a man willing to do anything to help his team mate.

The Major inclines his head, smiles thinly and tips the barrel of his gun at Rodney in casual salute, “Just tell me when Doc, just tell me when.”

John shakes his head, coughs to cover his amusement at Todd’s incredulous step away from the Marine, and taps his fingers on Rodney’s work  station, “So, any chance we can go and collect what’s ours _before_ he ends up a crispy mummified critter?”

All animosity momentarily forgotten, Todd and Rodney put their heads together over their tablets and nod, “Perhaps, but it’s going to take a little bit of finesse.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Queen is pleased with her warrior’s progress. Despite his initial denials and resistance, he is almost ready to wreak a little havoc on her behalf, “Ronon, look at me child.”

Ronon’s head comes up and his eyes; red-rimmed and weeping, scan the room as if seeing it for the very first time, “What would you have of me my Queen?”

Those words fill the Queen with, not exactly warmth, because her kind does not understand the concept, but a sense of victory. She has broken this one, broken him well enough for his body and mind to yearn to do her bidding, “Death warrior. I would have those that oppose me fall under your staff, starting with the Lantian scum you called friends.”

Ronon knows that what she is saying should fill him with horror and rage, he can still feel those thoughts flowing beneath the red haze she has created in his mind. They butt up against his newer instincts, scraping against his will to destroy those he used to class as family, “As you wish. When should I leave mistress?”

She steps forward, her regal gait not dulled by the hours she has spent working her way inside this one’s mind.

Slipping a hand into his hair, she tilts his chin, so she can see into the depths of his glassy eyes, “No need my child, they will come to us, and when they do, the first thing I want from you is to taste Colonel Sheppard’s pain, bright and blazing. I want his defeat to wash over me via the strings of our connection.”

Somewhere inside Ronon, a small part of him roars, tries to rip itself free from her grasp, but it is small, and it is quiet, so very quiet compared to the blanket of control she has smothered his mind with, “Yes, my Queen; you shall taste his defeat, and it will be sweet.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lorne and Sheppard have split off in two Jumpers; Rodney at the controls of Lorne’s, Sheppard piloting his own. The teams know that they have one shot to get in and retrieve their friend, without the diversion Todd will make, they have no hope, no single chance to bring Ronon home.

John can feel eyes at his back, eyes he doesn’t want to meet, not now, not when all he can hear is Ronon’s screams of anger and defeat as he was dragged away in chains.

A delicate touch brings him up short and the Jumper shudders as his concentration wavers.

“John, can I have a moment?”

Shaking the image of Ronon being hauled across the dusty desert out of his mind, he turns slightly, just enough that he can see Teyla’s concerned frown, the crease in her brow as she studies him, “What is it Teyla, I’m a little busy here.”

Teyla sighs and lowers her gaze. She knows she is fighting against layers of built-up feelings neither man has been brave enough to express, but she too has a burning need, and something tells her if she does not grasp whatever opportunity she can, she will lose this fight before it has begun, “John, please. Just a moment.”

John closes his eyes and sucks down a calming breath, knowing what’s coming and having no way to avoid the hurt he’s about to deal out to a woman who has done nothing but be there for him for a very long time, “Collins, come take the controls a minute would you?”

As John switches places with the Marine, he avoids eye contact with Teyla, not knowing how to break something that he’s been selfishly relying on for the last three years.

They shuffle towards the back of the Jumper, no real privacy except for the turned backs of their team.

“What?”

It comes out harsher than he’d expected, but John’s incapable of seeing passed the worry now swimming along his veins, diluting his blood with a craving for something he can’t quite put a finger on.

Teyla steps back as if slapped. John’s tone of voice tells her exactly what she needs to know, but she forges on regardless, knowing that if she does not, she will forever regret her decision, “Please, John,. I need...What you and Ronon have is...but I, we could be…”

John doesn’t know if the woman standing in front of him has ever had cause to stutter in her life. She’s certainly never been so unsure of herself in front of him, not in all the years they’ve been fighting side by side.

He feels a sense of loss, a sense of anguish for her confusion and inability to voice what she obviously so desperately needs to say. The protector in him, the noble man he can be wants to step forward and take her in his arms, to try to smooth away the doubt in herself, but he knows that will just create problems and questions he doesn’t have the answers to, “What is it Teyla? We’re almost at the Hive Ship. I need to be in my seat.”

Teyla steps into John’s personal space, lays a hand upon his vest, right over his heart, and turns eyes that are begging for understanding on him, “I know that you _feel_ for Ronon, I see it every time you are together. The way you move round each other, two single parts of one machine, but...I could. John I _want_ to be more. I do not know how to,” her fingers curl into claws, nails digging into the hardened material of his tack vest.

John takes pity, cups her hand with his own and places a finger beneath her chin, pulling her darting eyes to his face, “Teyla, I’m sorry. I wish...a few years ago, maybe, but now…” Letting his hand drop from hers and scrubbing twitching fingers through the mess of black hair curling at his nape; John leans his forehead against hers and whispers, “Before Ronon, there was a chance, there was a _real_ chance.”

The pain in her eyes as she closes them on his words; tries to block out what he’s saying, touches John in a place that mourns for the normalcy a relationship with this amazing woman would have brought. However he knows she needs the truth and wouldn’t appreciate the lie of the feigned possibility, “But he’s worked his way into my...into my heart, I can’t change that, not now. I am truly sorry, but he’s what I want.”

She steps back, removes her hand from his chest and lets it hang limply at her side, and for just a moment she allows herself to _feel_ the pain of his words, the loss they represent.

The hurt of his rejection washes over her, and she steps into it, lets it swirl around her for the briefest of minutes, and then she steps back out again, nods once, forces her eyes open and on his face before turning away to check her weapons and their supplies; shoulders ramrod straight, strength and bearing restored, “Perhaps you should retake your seat Colonel Sheppard. We are almost at the coordinates Todd provided us with.”

John’s hand comes up, hovers in mid-air above Teyla’s shoulder before dropping back to his side, knowing that she won’t appreciate the gesture. She’s a warrior and she needs time to rebuild her defences. Any kindness from him will undermine that. Stepping back, he turns towards the controls and swaps seats with Collins.

The men in the Jumper all study their boots as if they hold the answers to the universe, knowing that the Colonel and Teyla are capable of breaking each and every one of them if they dare to mention or make light of everything they’ve just heard.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ronon crouches in the shadows of the Hive’s corridors, waits for the expected explosion the Queen has informed him will happen. She’s neither stupid nor uninformed, and she knows exactly what his former team will have done.

Todd is also on the list of the Queen’s desired targets, but Ronon’s priority is Sheppard. She wants to feel his bones snapping under her newly trained warrior’s hands, and he is pleased to be able to give her this gift.

As the shock waves of the explosion rock the side of the Hive, Ronon readies himself to enter battle, to defeat those who step in his way.

He is strong. He is agile. He is a machine built for one thing and one thing only; death, death and the glory of the Wraith.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sheppard and Lorne come running out of their Jumpers and meet in the hangar bay of the Hive, having avoided the grab mechanism only by using their ship’s cloaking devices. The smoke is cloying, making their eyes sting and water, but they nod at each other once and step quickly and quietly in opposite directions, knowing if they have any chance of retrieving Ronon, they need to split up and start searching before the Wraith come running.

Sheppard watches Lorne and his team round a corner before leading his own men across the docking bay.

Teyla taps him on the shoulder once and gestures to herself then Lorne’s retreating back before turning on her heel and following.

John nods once, despite the fact she’s already gone, and turns back to his men, “Stealth is our friend people, or at least it is until we get hit with the first wave then give ‘em hell and sod quiet. Clear?”

He allows the men to step ahead of him, knowing that they will clear the way for him to start searching properly, also knowing that if Ronon isn’t a dusty corpse, he is most likely under the Queen’s control and will not engage the team, preferring to go straight for their leader.

Moments after the last of his team make it across the bay, he is hit full force in the back with a blast from a Wraith staff. The electric hum of power washes over his body, causing his muscles to twitch and burn, “Ronon, that you buddy?”

The dark chuckle that accompanies the sound of boots on metal fills John with a sense of heavy black dread. He’s heard that tone before, and as he hits his knees, hands scraping against the cold floor beneath him, he knows that Ronon is no longer his ally.

Well fuck, this is gonna take more than a little reasoning.

“Hello Sheppard. I’ve been waiting for you. She said you’d come.”

Ronon steps from the shadows and lays a hand on John’s shoulder, touch deceptively gentle, “Join us.”

John’s nerve endings stop vibrating just as his friend’s words filter through. Coughing and trying to sit back on his haunches, he looks up at the man he doesn’t know how to function without and sees that there is no spark, nothing that makes him the Satedan Warrior he once was, “Really, that’s your play, ‘Join us!’?”

Ronon’s open mouthed grin is feral and frightening as he tilts his head and studies his prey, “She told me to offer you the option, she also said you’d rather die, which apparently is absolutely fine by her.”

Ronon’s fingers retract into claws as he yanks Sheppard to his feet.

John barely has time to block the fist flying towards his midsection, knowing that if Ronon puts his mind to it, he can snap him in two, “Come on buddy, this isn’t you. She’s got you Jedi mind-fucked. You know me, you’re on my _team_!”

Ronon buries his fist in Sheppard’s kidneys, knocking the wind out of him, but refuses to allow him to drop to the floor, “I’m one of _her_ finest, sorry Sheppard, but she’s got some very creative plans for you. Like I said, join us, or wish for death.”

The ice in Ronon’s voice sends cold tendrils of fear snaking down John’s spine as he watches Ronon regard him with disdain and god help him, amusement.

Sliding his hand down Sheppard’s arm, Ronon grips his CO’s wrist and twists, dragging his arm up his back, before bodily shoving him across the bay, “Last chance Sheppard, join us, join me, or beg for the darkness.”

The sound of John’s boot heels scraping and bumping against the floor is the only noise echoing across the otherwise silent room and the Colonel understands that he’s about as far from home as he can get as he’s pulled towards whatever twisted punishment the Queen has in mind for him at the hands of the one man he thought would never be able to hurt him.

 


	2. Title: Art - Long Way From Home. Story - Weather The Storm. NC-17. John/Ronon. SGARB. Chapter Two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheppard is such a long way from home, can he weather the storm; make his way back to those who matter most, or will he lose it all?

  


** **Title of Art:** [ Long Way From Home ](http://siennavie.livejournal.com/30466.html) **  
**Artist:** [](http://siennavie.livejournal.com/profile) [ **siennavie** ](http://siennavie.livejournal.com/)  
**Pairing(s):** Gen. John Sheppard.  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Warnings:** No mandatory warnings apply.  
**Title of Fic:** Weather The Storm.  
 **Author:** [](http://milly-gal.livejournal.com/profile) [ **milly_gal** ](http://milly-gal.livejournal.com/)  
**Pairing(s):** Ronon/John  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Word Count:** 13,289.  
 **Warnings:** Character on character violence, slight non-con overtones. Torture.  
 **Summary:** Sheppard is such a long way from home, can he weather the storm; make his way back to those who matter most, or will he lose it all?  
 **A/N:** Sienna said, "I'm up for anything your Muse wants to play with," so I took that as a sign from the fic Gods to just let go :) Hope you enjoy. This was my first 'Bang' and I had such a blast, I will so be doing this again next year. Please go and give my amazing artist some love because she is so freaking talented, it hurts :) her art made me want to write this, and kept me going when I thought I was going to flag! Massive thanks goes out to my betas;  [](http://stir-of-echoes.livejournal.com/profile) [ **stir_of_echoes** ](http://stir-of-echoes.livejournal.com/) and  [](http://wings128.livejournal.com/profile) [ **wings128** ](http://wings128.livejournal.com/) , who's tireless cheerleading have kept me going on those days when the light at the end of the tunnel seemed really dull ! Also, thank you so much  [](http://siennavie.livejournal.com/profile) [ **siennavie** ](http://siennavie.livejournal.com/) for the extra banners *tackleglompsyousohard* they are gorgeous! And you're so right, Ronon should be in there somewhere !  
  
  


****

  


John comes to in a room large enough to house the Empire State Building and realises that Ronon must have managed to get the drop on him if the lump on the back of his head is anything to go by.

Eyes stinging, heart beating erratically behind his ribs, he tries to take mental stock of his situation without alerting the two people he can hear talking a few feet away from where he lays on a metal table; wrists bound, legs splayed in an uncomfortable tableau.

Sneaking looks from beneath his heavy eyelids, he spots Ronon’s muscled back and the green-grey tinge of the Queen’s slick skin as she lays hands on his team mate’s shoulders.

“You know what you have to do my child, he will either join us, or he will die, but _you_ have been given the honour of breaking him for me. You know him better than he knows himself. If anyone can force him to bend to our will, it is you.”

John thinks there may still be some hope for rescue until he hears Ronon’s rough tones explaining that Lorne, Teyla, Rodney and the others are secured and ready for storage in their ‘food’ repositories.

Head swimming with the images of his team all bound and beaten, John tries to wriggle his hands, see if there’s any give in his bindings.

The way the Queen keeps stroking Ronon’s honeyed flesh is distracting John from his attempts at freeing himself.

Nausea rolls over him, causing his stomach to lurch as he sees the Queen lean forward, pressing her serpentine lips to his friend’s, and he can’t control himself anymore, fuck stealth, “Oh bloody hell; I already wanna throw up everything I’ve ever eaten. Get a room would you!”

The Queen hisses and spins Ronon towards John, who is now fully awake and pulling against the restraints holding him in place, “Go to work warrior.”

She turns to walk away and Ronon snatches at her wrist, “Wait. You aren’t going to stay and watch?”

She bestows upon him her most hideous interpretation of a smile and inclines her head towards the monitors lining the room, “Oh, I’ll be watching, but I thought perhaps you and your ‘friend’ might enjoy this time alone.”

Her opaque, rheumy eyes take one long look up and down John’s body before wafting her hand at him dismissively and walking away.

Ronon’s eyes follow her retreating form all the way out of the room before turning towards his captive audience, “Sheppard, nice of you to drop in. Now, where were we?”

The edge to his best friend’s voice isn’t lost on John. He can hear a small tremor, the slightest hesitation, as if there’s a part of the _real_ Ronon raging in the background, beating his fists against the cage of control the Queen has snared him in, “Ronon, please. We need to get out of here. We’ve danced this one before, remember?”

Ronon’s eyes clear for the merest of moments and John sees the ache in them, the hatred of what he’s about to do, before it’s buried in layers of enzyme and mind altering mojo he has no way to break through, “Sorry _buddy_ , but I can see clearly for the first time in such a long time. She is the reason, my reason.”

Stepping up to the table, Ronon slides a knife from his thigh strap and runs the tip along the inseam of Sheppard’s pants.

John feels the point of Ronon’s knife slicing into his skin through the thin layer of cloth and the blood that flows fast and free, clotting in his leg hair and pooling beneath him. It’s only when the sharp sting of metal hisses along his flesh that he realises the wound in his side is also weeping, causing his shirt to cling and stick to his ribs.

Gritting his teeth, Ronon watches John’s eyes roll back in his head and has to fight the urge to snap the knife in his hand. There’s a small part of him, the tiniest spot of light in all the darkness, that’s screaming at him, pleading with him not to do this to his friend, not to violate the one bond of trust he’s ever managed to maintain.

Shaking his head, forcing the image of John’s laughing face as they played cards or killed time between missions out of his mind, Ronon digs the tip of the knife in deeper and twists, widening the wound now seeping deep coloured vital fluid into Sheppard’s trousers, “Join us!”

John fights the weightlessness now threatening to overwhelm him and brings his head up off the table, stares Ronon straight in the eyes and growls, “Never!”

Ronon’s hand shakes, fingers gripping the hilt of the knife in his slick palm, causing Sheppard’s flesh to quiver.

“Jesus fucking Christ! RONON, Stop!”

Bile rises in Ronon’s throat as he continues to slice tiny cuts into Sheppard’s exposed leg, drawing a road map of red across his pale flesh, “Joh...John?”

Even as John hears the hesitation and question in Ronon’s voice, the agonising lilt that shows his friend’s still in there, his large tanned hand works at its task, as if separate from the mind supposedly controlling it, “Ronon, _please_ listen to me, the enzyme it’s...shit, it’s controlling you, she’s got you hooked. You’ve been **drugged**. We’ve gotta get out of here!”

Ronon’s eyes slam shut and his hand stills, knife still embedded in John’s leg.

The larger man’s entire body begins to shake and shudder, forcing a rush of breath passed Sheppard’s lips as the metal bites into his exposed nerves, “Ronon! Snap out of it, NOW!”

Ronon opens his eyes, and they’re not clear. They don’t have the right shifting shades, the changing colours that John’s been falling into for the last year, but they’re less glassy, less full of the roiling effects of the enzyme.

“John? Wha...Where...Shit, my head, I can’t...help me!”

The horror of realisation in Ronon’s voice tugs at John, worms its way into his head and makes him want to shelter his friend from the knowledge that he is the one causing Sheppard’s blood to drip from the table, creating an ever growing puddle at his feet, “Listen to me, Ronon. We're in a Hive ship; you’ve got to fight whatever it is she’s done to you. I can’t...I don’t know if I can walk and I _need_ you.”

There’s a moment's airlessness before all hell breaks loose.

A sucking vacuum of sound that presses in on John, makes his ears sing with un-uttered words, and then they are surrounded; Wraith warriors all piling in from every available entry point, brandishing their staffs and crushing up against Ronon and the table where John is struggling like a wild animal in chains, “Quick, Ronon, you have to…”

It takes seconds for John’s meaning to filter through the cacophony of Wraith all crowding in on him, and he reaches out, grasps the restraints pinning his friend to the table and roars as he rips them apart. Pieces of metal and living organism flying over the heads of the warriors shoving the tips of their weapons into his back, “Sheppard, get up, NOW!”

Ronon creates a cage of his arms, sheltering John’s body as he rolls off of the table, landing heavily on his hands and knees.

The holler of agony that accompanies John trying to haul himself to his feet serves to clear Ronon’s mind a little more, and he manages to fight back the Wraith still trying to beat them to the ground. Spinning in the tight space, the Satedan Warrior flings himself into the undulating mass of bodies, ripping and slashing with the knife still coated in John’s blood.

The glint of red and silver, John’s blood and flashing metal embeds itself in the necks of three Wraith before the tip snaps off in another one’s throat, causing a gush of rancid smelling fluid to issue from the beast now writhing in pain on the floor.

Ronon swipes the back of his hand across his mouth in disgust, removing as much of the viscous fluid as he can before bending without looking and heaving John into his arms.

John can barely keep his eyes open as he’s lifted, but he manages to snatch a discarded weapon off the floor, firing randomly and without aim at anything that moves.

Between Ronon’s brute strength and John’s intermittent blasts of energy fire, they manage to fight their way from the room; the bodies of downed Wraith lay in grotesque pictures of sleep at their feet.

Ronon drops John without warning, causing the gaping hole in his leg to rip in a ragged pattern, spewing blood into the prone man’s boot, “What the...Ronon?”

Ronon grips his head, nails gauging chunks of flesh out of his face, "I can feel her. I can...shit, I can feel it, the enzyme. I can't...I don't know..."

John does the only thing he can think of to centre his friend. He crawls up his impressive body, and punches him hard in the face; splitting his lip and causing his head to snap back with a sickening crunch, “Ronon, wake the fuck up!

Ronon’s eyes shift and change from opaque and smoky to their normal rich chocolate hues, and he flings his head back and forth, growling and whimpering at the same time, clawing at his hair.

John can hear more Wraith shifting along the corridors, and he knows that they have to try to get to the team or they’ll never get out of here and he will _not_ leave them behind, “Ronon, please. We've gotta get to the others, _help me_.”

Gritting his teeth, fighting the effects of the enzyme as best he can, Ronon reaches out blindly and grips John’s arms, “Ahead five hundred paces then left, cells are on the second tier.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Managing to avoid the majority of Wraith all swarming the Hive searching for them, Ronon and John have found the cells and thank fuck the team haven’t been moved to containment yet, because Rodney is talking John through the wiring for their cages and getting increasingly more frustrated every time Sheppard screws up a conduit switch, “Not that one, are you blind, I said left, _left_!”

Ronon’s laying at John’s feet, sweating and writhing, gripping the bars of the cell to try to stop himself from attacking his friend. He can feel the Queen’s fingers inside his head, worming their way into his brain, telling him to react, to attack and take his team apart, “John I haven’t...I can’t...you’ve gotta hurry!”

John sighs, screws his eyes shut and aims a kick at Ronon’s ribs, “Sorry, sorry!”

Violence and pain seem to keep the effects of the enzyme at bay at least a little better than pleading and reasoning and every time Ronon looks like he’s about to flip, John has to find a piece of flesh he hasn’t already bruised. It’s agony having to do it, but it’s better than having to find a way out for their team and fight the massive man who’s capable of splintering his spine, “Rodney, what next, quick!”

Lorne lays a hand on Mckay's shoulder and nods towards Ronon, who’s wrapping his ribs with his arms and shuddering outside the cell, “Right, yes, that one, yank that one out, and we should…”

John pulls against the sticky membrane and the bars separate with a hiss, “Yes! Right, Lorne, little help here!”

Lorne nods and motions for his men to surround Ronon. None of them are particularly lax about their view of the Satedan Warrior, despite his weakened state, and it falls to Lorne to take action, being the only man other than Sheppard in the group with the backbone to brave firing on one of their own.

Wincing and stepping back, John looks away as the crack of his discarded Wraith weapon echoes around the chamber. Looking back, Ronon is unconscious and no longer struggling against the effects of the enzyme and John makes a promise to himself that he’ll smuggle in a month’s worth of New York cheesecake for his downed friend.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Teyla wonders if perhaps she should have taken Rodney’s offer of a ride in his Jumper, but her protective instincts had kicked in and regardless of her personal feelings towards the Colonel and Ronon, she needed to be within touching distance of her injured team members.

She is beginning to regret that decision though, because not only are they all beaten and bruised, ragged breathing filling the stagnant air of the Jumper cabin, but she is having to watch as John fusses over the unconscious form of the bloody and injured warrior.

The picture they are creating stings on a level that Teyla did not know she had within her.

John can feel Teyla’s eyes scanning across his back as he washes and dresses Ronon’s wounds. He feels for her. He wishes she didn’t have to see the evidence and truth of their earlier conversation played out in front of her face, but he can’t bring himself to stop his ministrations.

He should be in a corner crying in agony. He has two open wounds, blood still slowly seeping from both, making him light-headed and wispy, but the thought of someone else helping Ronon with the wounds he’s had inflicted mainly by John in the last two hours, settles a sickening leaden weight in the Colonel’s stomach.

John continues to wrap Ronon’s injuries as Collins manoeuvres the Jumper towards the space gate, “Colonel, we’re here, are we waiting for the others?”

Static fills the silence of the Jumper as Mckay’s voice rattles across the airwaves, “Waiting for who, we’ve been here ten minutes; we were about to abandon your asses!”

John’s head comes up and he grins, despite the watery consistency of his barely maintained consciousness, and nods at Collins, “Feel free to tell Doctor Mckay to bite us, hard.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John watches Carson tighten the straps wrapping Ronon’s wrists and ankles and sighs heavily before stumbling on his feet, grabbing the closest gurney and hoping gravity doesn’t earn itself a new victory.

“He’s secure John. You should lay down. I’ve gotta re-stitch that wound in ya side, ya should be dead man, the amount of blood you lost from that and the bloody great hole in your leg, how on Earth did you manage…”

John refuses to break visual contact with the still unconscious Ronon as Carson forces him onto a gurney, “Couldn’t flake out, he needed me.”

Carson shakes his head and tutts. These two will be the death of him.

Between the pair of them and their back and forth, he’ll end up with Atlantis’ first ever recorded case of emotional whiplash, “You know John, maybe it’s time you actually told him how you feel?”

John snorts then realises what the Doctor’s said and gives him the most incredulously shocked stare he can muster in his current state of royally fucking toasted, “How did you…”

Carson chuckles and splays his hand against John’s chest, forcing him flat as he administers the anaesthetic needed for patching up the impetuous Flyboy, “Hardly a secret son, the tension around here is palpable at the best a times.”

The last thing John hears is Carson whistling low and long as he studies the Colonel’s wounds, the last thing he _sees_ before the darkness encroaches on him, is Ronon’s hand; restrained, but stretched out towards him, palm up, inviting him to take what he so desperately wants.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Sheppard, Sheppard, get down here! Don’t be a coward Colonel, I thought you were better than that!”

John’s heart aches for the man currently writhing in agony and fury on the bed in the isolation unit.

It isn’t fair. He's already had to go through this once, and it damn near destroyed their friendship the first time round. Not through anything John held up as a grudge, but because Ronon would not, could not forgive himself.

It’d taken a fortnight’s worth of John’s stupidest jokes and constant prattling, not something that the laconic pilot has ever been used to indulging in, for Ronon to even be able to look his friend in the eye.

Finally, after a particularly brutal battle with the Wraith and a near-death experience, for the both of them, John had managed to get Ronon to open up about why he’d been avoiding his team mate; Shame!

If ever there was anyone who had _no_ cause to feel shame, it was Ronon Dex, but what others perceived about the Satedan and what he himself felt deserved punishment were two very different things.

Now John’s faced with the possibility of Ronon withdrawing from him completely, of him sheltering within the walls of his own psyche, just so he doesn’t have to face what exactly he’s done at the control of the Queen. The Queen who is still out there somewhere, watching the footage of Ronon taking his best friend apart piece by piece; dining out on the pain and anguish her newest shiniest recruit was obviously feeling.

“I wish you’d killed that bitch!”

Turning, finding Rodney standing very still behind him, John nods once and turns back to the image of Ronon railing at thin air, “I’ve got regrets on that score my own self.”

Rodney moves closer to the glass surrounding the observation deck, places a hand, palm flat against its cool surface, and rests his forehead gently atop it, “I want to go down there, see if he needs anything, but the last time I...before, he nearly got loose, and...I’m not sure I can…”

John, never losing sight of his suffering friend, lays a hand on Rodney’s shoulder and squeezes, “I understand, and believe it or not, so will he.”

Rodney nods against his hand and withdraws, leaving Sheppard with his thoughts.

Making sure the observation deck is clear of personnel, John ascends the stairs leading to the door of Ronon’s prison. Taking a deep breath, he forces himself to turn the handle and walk through.

Faced with the red-rimmed eyes of his best friend, with the sound of him spitting insults and threats, John doesn’t know if he can do this again, doesn’t know if he can watch Ronon go through withdrawal for the second time without it tearing a hole in his already breaking heart.

“Ronon, please.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ronon’s been clean for twenty-four hours, clean and clear and fully aware of everything that happened on the Hive ship. Shame and self-loathing battle for dominance in the usually stoic and controlled man’s mind.

He’s had a few visitors, Carson of course and Teyla; strangely attentive yet withdrawn.

She’s never been that good at open displays of affection, but she’s usually better at concealing her feelings, and something tells Ronon he’s going to have to have a chat with John at some point, if the way her eyes darted anywhere but his face was any indication.

John, John’s been in to see him three times and each time Ronon’s been unable to make eye contact, unable to plead for the forgiveness he so desperately needs.

John being John, he’d known exactly what Ronon was thinking without him ever having to open his mouth.

Each time he’s walked through that door, the Colonel’s kept up a steady stream of chatter, both inane and profound, all mixed in with the sense that there’s something he needs to get off his chest and doesn’t know where to even begin.

This time though, John is purposefully _not_ talking. It’s a tactic Ronon’s familiar with, having allowed the silence to fill the room enough times in the past, knowing that someone will always need to fill it with sound.

His tongue is thick and heavy in his mouth, feeling as though it’s filling the space, stopping him from being able to voice the things he wants to say out loud.

Finally, unable to stand the subtle sounds of John’s breathing so close and yet just out of reach, Ronon looks up into the ever expressive eyes of the man who knows him better than he knows himself, “John I…”

“Look, Ronon we need to…” John stumbles over his words, letting them mingle in his mind until the fear of uttering them is absorbed in with the worry that his friend won't allow him back beneath his defences.

Ronon motions with his hand, urges John forward with whatever thought was about to slip unbidden out of his mouth. When no such information is forthcoming, Ronon forges on, “No, yeah, we do, but...I’m...Shit Sheppard, I’m so sorry.”

John shakes his head and tries not to limp too heavily as he steps closer to the bed, not wanting the physical reminder of what he’s suffered to shut Ronon down again, “No, stop. Nothing to be sorry for.”

Ronon eyes John’s mangled leg, bandages clearly visible through his casual clothes, and closes his eyes against the remembered scent of John’s blood pooling on that table, “But I…” Gesturing wordlessly, not knowing how to even begin to apologize for the pain he’s put his CO through. Ronon has to bite back an unusually emotional response to John’s hand being laid gently atop his knee.

The heat of Ronon’s skin through too thin hospital issue scrubs seeps into the palm of John’s hand, and he can feel the energy between them crackling along his flesh, from head to toe he _feels_ Ronon’s presence in his life, of his solidity and solidarity. Of the bubbling need to claw into him, to touch him, everywhere.

Ronon starts back as if burnt; knee jerking, skin twitching beneath John’s fingers, “Shepp...John?”

John removes his hand, stares at it as if there should be a scold mark where their bodies were moments ago touching. Brows knitted in concentration and confusion, he studies his palm a minute longer before reaching out and cupping Ronon’s cheek.

Silently, Ronon slots his fingers between John’s and squeezes before blindly grasping for a hand hold on his erstwhile friend.

Snatching a loose fold of fabric, Ronon drags John into his body, butts his knees up against the bed that seems to be vibrating with the taller man’s need to touch and taste. Slipping off the edge of the bed, bare feet coming into contact with cold tile, Ronon spins and presses the older man into the edge of the gurney before closing his eyes and resting his forehead against John’s, “I...I can’t do it anymore. I’m sick of pretending I can’t _feel_ you everywhere I go.”

John lets out a breath that ghosts across Ronon’s cheek, makes the flesh twitch and jump, before tilting his head and capturing his friend's lips in a brutal kiss. No sense of finesse, no dancing around it, just teeth crashing, noses smashed together, saliva and spittle mixing together to create a suction between two mouths that have been craving this, for as long as they’ve known each other.

Ronon’s vaguely aware that anyone could walk in on them, stroll past the observation window and be met with a picture that will go down in history as the most uncoordinated, unromantic display of need anyone’s ever witnessed.

The gurney slides out from beneath John as Ronon backs him across the room. Not bothering to take his hands or lips away from the man in his arms, Ronon kicks the bed over into the corner before slamming John against the wall, “Bad idea, anyone could…”

John’s body and its reaction to Ronon’s touch is overriding anything and everything within him that would usually be screaming common sense and decency. The heat Ronon’s creating will not be tamed or quelled. A team of wild horses could not drag John’s lips away from this man’s throat as he sucks sweet, salty flesh between parched and chapped lips, “Don't care, don’t fucking care!”

“You’re hurt!” Ronon tries to pull back, but his hand comes up of its own free will to cup the base of John’s skull, pulls him inexplicably closer, cradling his head as he suckles Ronon’s flesh, raising a welt that will take days to disappear.

The feel of John’s teeth scraping against his jugular is all Ronon needs to shove his body into overdrive.

Cock hard and weeping in his scrubs, Ronon grinds himself into John’s stomach, eliciting a wince of pain and a hiss from the man steadily devouring the jumping pulse beneath his tongue, "John stop. You're hurt. We can't..."

John grits his teeth against the throbbing ache in his side and scrabbles for something to hold onto that isn’t Ronon. Breathing heavily, fighting his way past the pain, John turns blazing eyes on his best friend, “Need you, now! Ronon, _please_.”

Ronon steps in closer still, moulds himself to John’s shuddering frame. Leaning down, whispering huskily into his ear whilst pulling none too gently on the sensitive lobe with his teeth, “Turn around.”

John’s body follows the order without question, mind mere seconds behind, realising that the only way he’s going to be able to have what he wants is if he allows Ronon free reign. If he’s going to come out of this unharmed with all his stitches intact, he’s going to have let Ronon take him. The thought thrills along his nerve endings, causing his breath to come in short ragged bursts at the same time as his heart begins to beat wildly in his chest, “Please.”

The sound of John begging is something Ronon’s been imagining in the dead of night, surrounded by darkness, large hand working himself to completion with the Colonel’s name on his lips and his own release soaking his cold, lonely sheets, for months.

Hearing it properly, finally, for real, sliding into his ears like treacle down the side of a stack of pancakes, has Ronon’s cock jumping against his belly, pre-come coating his head, seeping along his shaft and pooling between his aching balls, “Palms flat.”

John splays his fingers against the wall, nails scraping almost painfully against the unyielding wall, “Ronon?” The sound of fabric rustling behind him followed swiftly by cool air hitting his ass makes John jump on the spot. A warm calming hand places itself at his hip, and he relaxes into the touch as if it’s been a part of his life forever.

“Shhh, gently. Don’t wanna hurt you,”

Ronon’s quiet admittance makes John’s heart race with longing for this man who’s capable of so much violence and yet so much more compassion.

Steadying himself, splaying his legs, John closes his eyes and lays his forehead against the cool wall, waiting.

Ronon doesn’t disappoint. A large, warm calloused palm snakes between John’s legs to cup his balls, giving them a soft squeeze before trailing sharp ragged nails along the edge of his twitching cock, “Fuck.”

Ronon chuckles and rings his thumb and finger around the red and swollen head of John’s steadily jumping cock, “Planning on it.”

Allowing the heat from John’s twitching flesh to seep into his palm, Ronon takes a moment to really appreciate the sight in front of him.

John’s ass is pressed into the air, peachy and inviting, skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat that the taller man wants to taste and savour, longs to work it into his own flesh over and over again until neither one knows where they end nor begin.

Ronon’s quiet scrutiny should make John want to walk out of his own skin, but he finds he can feel his lover’s eyes working their way along the line of his spine, still mostly encased in cloth. He even knows when Ronon has reached the sight of his asshole, puckered and twitching at the thought of having that sarcastically cutting tongue working him from the inside out.

As if reading his mind, Ronon leans down and blows softly against John’s tight hole before slathering it with the flat of his tongue. Working his CO’s muscles, savouring the flavour of John at the back of his throat.

John groans loudly, widens his stance and presses himself into Ronon’s talented mouth, aching for more yet not wanting this sensation to ever end. The breath John let’s slip from his slackened lips is shuddery and laboured as he grinds himself down onto Ronon’s tongue.

Ronon’s heart and mind are filled with the scents and sounds of John letting himself go completely.

It’s an unheard of thing; John Sheppard allowing total control over to another living soul, and being the person responsible for incoherency from a man who is _all_ about control is just so tantalising it sends a jolt of pure smugness shooting along his veins, filling his chest with the need to crow, to beat his breast and brag to all that will listen, ‘John Sheppard is _mine_!’

As much of a reaction as Ronon’s amazingly dexterous tongue is garnering from John’s long unloved body, it’s not enough. He needs more. Has to have _more_ , and if he doesn’t get it soon he’s going to implode, “ **Ronon!** ”

Ronon laughs against John’s skin, lets the feel of it beat back at him from the man’s quivering flesh and crawls off of his knees. Taking himself in hand, fingers still wrapping John’s by now familiar weight, Ronon fists his own cock two or three times, fills his palm with pre-come, before working two fingers roughly inside John’s slackened hole.

There’s no politeness here, no need for peace, just a burning desire to possess someone who, up until now, has been unattainable. Instead of gently working John open, Ronon scissors his fingers and is delighted when John slams himself into the palm cupping his ass.

“God, yes, more, gotta have _more_.”

John rotates his hips, bottoms out on Ronon’s knuckles before drawing almost all the way off of his fingers, dragging a moan from his lips he didn’t even know was there.

The white noise that usually keeps John awake at night is finally silenced by the man behind him filling his body and soul with a need so visceral that he feels like screaming, crying and moaning loud enough to wake the entire base.

Happy that his lover’s ready, Ronon withdraws his hand and places the tip of his impressive cock at John’s entrance.

Sliding himself along the cleft of John’s ass, he places both hands on his best friend’s hips and leans low over his shoulder, “Ready? I’m...Jesus; I’m a little bigger than...don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Not my first rodeo, don’t worry.”

“You sure?”

John grits his teeth and bites down on the urge to tense up, “If you don’t fuck me right now, I swear to god, I’m gonna fuck you up Dex.”

Ronon laughs low as John’s muscles tighten beneath his fingers, but he smooths his thumbs along the curve of John’s hips until they loosen up and relax.

“I’ve wanted you,” Ronon surges forward, encasing himself in John’s scalding heat.

“Oh god,” John’s entire body reacts as if on a puppet string; thigh muscles tightening, legs widening, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick, cold wall, as he pulls up onto the toes of his boots.

“Since I first laid eyes on you,” Ronon’s nerves thrum with the feel of John’s body opening up to and grasping him tight all at the same time. Burying himself balls deep. Hips digging into the curve of John’s ass, he rotates his pelvis like a belly dancer before pulling almost all the way out.

“Jesus, Ronon, please,” John automatically pushes backwards, following the sensation of fullness, of wholeness that Ronon’s jumping shaft creates inside him.

“You. Are. Beautiful,” Each word is punctuated by a sharp snap of Ronon’s hips.

John’s entire being, his entire reason for breathing right now is focused on Ronon’s cock nudging up against that sweet spot inside, the one that makes his toes curl inside his boots, and his head swim with the sounds of his lover grunting behind him.

Ronon’s fingers, still circling John’s engorged and almost painfully hard cock, begin to undulate along his flesh, working him hard and fast, needing to feel the man surrounding him let go, let go utterly and completely, “John, I need you to, please...I need you to…”

John can feel Ronon’s entire body humming with the need for release, and he isn’t much behind his best friend as he groans loudly and slams backwards, stretching and straining the stitches still just about holding his flesh together, “So close, fuck, so close.”

Ronon pumps his hips, throwing away any rhythm or caution, needing to empty himself inside John before his eyes roll into the back of his skull, “That’s it. That's it John, come for me, wanna feel you, need to feel you.”

John lets loose a holler loud enough to shake the observation deck’s windows as he empties himself across Ronon’s knuckles, sticky sweet release sliding down the wall and pooling beneath his booted feet.

John’s body tightens around Ronon’s aching shaft, and his hips shudder erratically as he groans out an orgasm that fills John so fully it seeps out of his twitching hole, snaking back down the side of his throbbing cock, mingling with the heavy sheen of moisture coating every inch of Ronon’s exposed skin.

The air in the room, heavy with sweat and sex, with the sounds of both men grunting and steadying themselves against the tidal wave of sensation, shudders and stills. As if it too needs a moment to breathe, to regain some semblance of control.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Unseen and unheard, hovering on the observation deck, is Teyla.

A slight figure that can be both calming and imposing all at once.

She places her palm flat against the glass, closes her eyes against the onslaught of emotion seeing John and Ronon together like this forces from within, and nods, before turning her back and walking away.

She may want what she cannot have, but there is no denying, they are beautiful together, and neither she nor anyone else has the right to try to get between the truth of them.


End file.
